More Than You Know (8 page)

As it happened, the journey back occupied Claire's mind in other ways. It was unlikely she would have given a thought to the bracelet.

"A penny for them,” Mrs. Webster said. “You're so quiet, dear."

Claire was surprised her teacher noticed. There had been a long, one-sided account of Mrs. Webster's recent bout with some stomach distress. Her comment was an indication that she had finally exhausted the topic. “Is Captain Hamilton a handsome man?” she asked without preamble.

The carriage continued to roll forward smoothly. A rut in the road could not be found to explain Mrs. Webster's sudden jerk. Claire would not have appreciated her teacher's surprise or the knowing smile that came on its heels. “So that's the way the wind blows,” she said.

"It's merely a question,” Claire said tartly. “Not an indication of any particular feeling."

Mrs. Webster's smile faded. “There's no need to be prickly, Miss Bancroft. As it happens, I do have an opinion about the captain's countenance."

Claire was weary of apologies and she did not offer one now. She did, however, make an effort to soften her tone. “Please, I should like to hear it."

"Well, it's not that I've been formally introduced to him, you understand. I've only observed him on those occasions he was coming and going from his grace's house. I have to say that I thought him rather formidable."

"Yes, I gathered that.” It fit well with Claire's image of him as a large stone tiki, fierce and forbidding. “But it's not very descriptive. What else can you tell me?"

"His hair is the color of a copper. Not a new coin, mind you, but something that's been in your pocket for a while."

"Tarnished?"

"Oh, but not green, dear.” Mrs. Webster chuckled at the thought. “It's brown and copper and burnt orange. A dark sunset, I suppose. Does that bring it to mind?"

Claire found that it did. “Yes, what else?"

"He has dark eyes,” she said. “Not so dark as your own, but some shade of brown. He has strong features: a hawkish sort of face with a hard chin and a Roman nose. Not so different from his grace, if you'll forgive the comparison, when he was a younger man."

Claire could remember that. The Duke of Strickland had always been able to turn heads with his compelling looks. Their close association had not made her immune to them. As a young girl she had offered him a proposal of marriage. Claire could smile at the memory now. It had caused her some embarrassment at the time, and her mother no small amount of distress. Stickle was the one who had recovered first, declaring himself heartily flattered by her declaration.

"Then he
is
handsome,” said Claire.

"That's a fair assessment,” Mrs. Webster allowed. “But it just misses the mark. It doesn't account for the scar."

"The scar?"

"The captain has a thin scar running from under his hairline at his temple to his jaw. I couldn't say what put it there, and I'm certain I don't know how long he's had it. He appears perfectly comfortable with it, so I don't believe it's a recent acquisition. By rights the scar should be disfiguring, cutting across his cheek the way it does, but with Captain Hamilton it merely keeps me from pronouncing him beautiful."

Claire blinked and her lips parted in wonder. “Why, Mrs. Webster, I wouldn't have—"

"Because I'm a widow?” Mrs. Webster interrupted. “And old? Neither of those characteristics keeps me from appreciating fine things when I see them."

"Now who's being prickly?” teased Claire. “Are you certain you won't accompany me on this voyage, Mrs. Webster? It could be that you and the captain would—"

Mrs. Webster leaned across the carriage aisle and tapped Claire on the knee, stopping her in mid-sentence. “It could be that casting my eye in the captain's direction is the cause of my stomach distress. My constitution would not tolerate the close quarters of the voyage."

Claire smiled as she was meant to and said nothing. Mrs. Webster could have been speaking for her as well.

"You're in a mood this evening,” Cutch said. He looked pointedly at the book that lay open on Rand's lap. It had been placed there ten minutes ago when Rand grew tired of holding it. Up until that time he had at least made a pretense of reading it. Cutch folded his newspaper into quarters and put it on the side table. He picked up his brandy. “Second thoughts?"

Rand knew exactly to which thoughts Cutch was referring. “I'm long past second ones,” he admitted. “I've talked myself in and out of taking her a dozen times over."

Cutch nodded. He couldn't remember when Rand had ever given this much consideration to a decision already made. “Women have never been more than trouble on a ship."

One of Rand's brows lifted skeptically. “You don't believe that any more than I do."

"I thought if you were looking for an excuse...” Cutch shrugged, letting his voice trail off.

"We sail the day after tomorrow. It's a little late. There's been quite a bit of preparation already. If the comings and goings of dressmakers, milliners, and seamstresses are any indication, Miss Bancroft's new clothes are going to require a cabin of their own. Today I made my choice on the teacher who will accompany her."

"What is she like?"

"He. Miss Bancroft's teacher is male."

"Oh.” Cutch did not try to hide his disappointment. It would have been a pure pleasure to have two women on board
Cerberus.
Not that either of them would have paid him any mind, but they couldn't stop him from appreciating their company. “Wasn't expecting that."

"Neither was I.” Rand closed the book and laid it aside. “Until yesterday, all the candidates for the position were women. Then Strickland introduced some new ones whom he had interviewed while Mrs. Webster was at Abberly. She met them this morning and found them acceptable. We all agreed that one was exceptional."

"Then that's good."

It would have been better if he had been female, Rand thought. He didn't voice his misgivings because there was no substance to them. He was not willing to credit that his personal preference might be rooted in jealousy. “We'll have to rearrange the accommodations. I was anticipating that Miss Bancroft and her teacher would share quarters."

Perhaps they would, Cutch thought. And perhaps that was what disturbed Rand. “Hmmm,” was all he said.

Rand cocked an eyebrow but didn't challenge Cutch to say what was on his mind. “His name is Macauley Stuart.
Dr.
Macauley Stuart."

"A physician?"

"Yes. Scots. He had, by all accounts, a fair practice in Aberdeen. He treats everything but he's had a particular interest in treatments for the eye. He is not optimistic about Miss Bancroft's chance of recovery. In fact, he went so far as to say that his French colleague, Dr. Messier, should not be allowed to make such claims. Mrs. Webster agrees that he is not as knowledgeable as other candidates in being able to further Miss Bancroft's skills, but his medical background is something no one else can offer. She also believes he will not bore Miss Bancroft."

"Why does he want to make this voyage? Money?"

"I don't think so. He appeared to be comfortably settled. I think it's the adventure. He has a romantic's idea of sea travel."

"That might be tolerable. I expect I'd feel differently if you told me he was a do-gooder. I can't stand do-gooders."

Rand was aware of Cutch's sentiments and shared them with only a bit less fervor. “He doesn't have a missionary's zeal, and it won't take him long to realize the poets and writers have vastly overrated the sea's romance."

Especially if Rand took
Cerberus
on a choppy North Atlantic course. Cutch imagined the good doctor couldn't provide much in the way of conversation if he was spilling his guts over the taffrail. “What does Miss Bancroft think of him?"

"When I left the duke's, she was out. She's meeting Dr. Stuart this evening."

"And her reaction?"

"She'll either hate him because he was my choice or love him just to spite me."

"Hmmm."

Rand nodded, staring at his hands. “Yes, that's what I thought."

Cerberus
was a clipper that Rand had saved from being refitted as a steamer after the war. He borrowed money and raised funds to buy and refurbish her. She was a fine Remington ship out of Boston, with sleek lines built for speed and so many sails when she was fully rigged that it seemed a following wind couldn't catch her. She had been part of a Yankee blockade around Charleston and was captured early in the war because of a well-placed Confederate cannonade. Her crew was forced to abandon her, and eventually she was towed in and repaired. She ran the blockades after that and helped bring relief to a city that was being cut off from every supply imaginable.

Rand appreciated that
Cerberus
had begun her life as a Boston clipper. He liked the notion of having taken something from the Yankees and put it to his own use. Too often the period known as Reconstruction was merely the North reconstructing the South in its own image. It pained him still that as much as he was able to raise to repair and outfit the clipper, it was only a fraction of what he had needed to pay the taxes assessed on Henley.

Rand stood at the rail and watched the traffic on the wharf. Behind him his men moved with the ease of long practice, taking on the last of the perishable supplies and making the ship ready to sail. Rand's attention could have been elsewhere, but Cutch was competent to see to the details while Rand looked for the duke's carriage.

He would sail without her. There was no question of that. Rand didn't know if Strickland or his goddaughter would have even considered such a thing possible. The seven sisters, be damned. He could find them on his own now that he knew to look on Pulotu. Claire's presence was not strictly necessary, and that would free him from having to bother with Dr. Stuart.

It was not that he had to hurry the departure. An hour, even more than one, would not seriously impede him. He was not on a schedule to deliver goods or passengers.
Cerberus
was fast, too. Given the right conditions, she could ply the Atlantic waters from London to Charleston in just under two weeks. Anxious as Rand was to see Charleston, Henley, and Bria, he was not of a mind to put his ship through her paces or create problems for the crew.

He was, though, willing to leave these shores on time as a matter of principle, and begin the first lesson that Miss Bancroft needed to learn. In all things that happened on
Cerberus,
he bore the responsibility and the command.

Rand watched a wagon being unloaded of the last crate of fresh fruit. He followed its progress up the gangboard, then motioned to Cutch.

"Pull the gangboard!” Cutch ordered. The rich bass notes of his voice rumbled like distant thunder over the heads of the men. “Make ready!"

"Make way! Make way, I tell you! Out!"

Rand's attention was caught by the hack driver who was not only whipping at his horse, but at anyone who got close to his cab. The pedestrians who could not jump out of his way fought back with raised fists and blue language. The number of angry people seemed to increase exponentially as the hack drew closer to
Cerberus.
Rand thought a brawl was a distinct possibility and was almost sorry he would miss it.

Then again ... He paused in turning his back as the door to the hack was flung open and the Duke of Strickland stepped out. Rand's eyes narrowed and their chestnut coloring gleamed a little brighter as he surveyed the hired hack and the duke's flustered features. He was quite certain this equipage was not what Strickland had proposed to arrive in.

"Stay!” Rand called to the men hauling in the gangboard. “Let it rest.” He moved to the opening as Strickland helped Claire down from the hack. The duke was also giving orders for the driver to hurry with the trunks. Rand counted them with something akin to wonder. He thought they'd taken on all Claire and the doctor could possibly need last night. He sighed. “Find room for them, Cutch."

Cutch scratched his bald black head for a moment. “If that ain't a sorry sight.” He grabbed one of the crew as the hapless man walked in front of him. “Diggs, you heard the captain. Find room for those trunks.” Over the man's head, Cutch grinned widely at Rand. “Always someone smaller to pass the problem on to."

Rand nodded, taking in Cutch's full height. “In your case, that's true.” He looked over the rail. Claire was on her godfather's arm, but she was holding an ebony cane. He had never seen her with it before, and his first thought was that she had injured herself. He called himself a fool when he realized what service she would be putting it to.

Macauley Stuart was the last to alight from the carriage. Rand acknowledged the doctor's raised hand with a curt nod. He had no wish to become the man's friend.

Strickland escorted Claire up the gangway. “Steady, m'dear. You're doing fine. You should try to use your cane."

Claire clutched the duke's elbow a little more tightly. “Not just now,” she whispered. “Not yet."

He nodded. “Of course. When you're settled. Dr. Stuart will help you."

"That I will, Miss Bancroft. You're in good hands."

"She'll be in my hands,” Rand said as Claire and Strickland reached the top. “I'm going to take your arm, Miss Bancroft.” She offered it without hesitation, which Rand took as a good sign. “Welcome aboard."

Claire found herself feeling shy all of a sudden. “Thank you. I apologize for our lateness."

"It's not her fault,” Strickland said gruffly. “She doesn't have anything to apologize for. The damn carriage threw a wheel not a block from the house. Had to hail a cab and transfer the trunks. Bah! What a scene. Most of the residents were peeping out their windows and pretending not to. What a story for their dinner table: the Duke of Strickland standing at the curb flapping his arms for a hack while his driver tried to fix the wheel. I looked like some ungainly bird, I'll wager."

"I'm sure you didn't,” Claire said gently.

"An ostrich,” he went on. “Or ... what's the other one I told you about at the zoo?"

"An emu."

"Yes, a damn emu. Not pretty birds. Not pretty by a long shot. Hmmmpf."

Claire reached out and found the duke's forearm. She tugged on the sleeve of his jacket until he moved closer.

"What are you about, girl?"

She smiled. He only called her girl when he was working hard at being irritable. “I shall miss you so very much,” she said. “Dr. Stuart promises he will help me keep a journal and write letters. I will record every aspect of the voyage in such detail, you will think you've been part of it. I'm coming back to you with my eyes wide open, my brother in hand, and offering up your share of the treasure. You'll see, dear Stickle, it won't be long.” She stood on tiptoe. Her ebony cane brushed against his leg as she kissed him on the cheek.

He blustered a bit at this public display of affection, but Strickland's ice-blue eyes had taken on a watery edge.

Claire removed herself from the duke's embrace. She found Rand's elbow again.

"God's speed, Claire,” Strickland said. He turned and hurried down the gangboard. It was pulled up as soon as his feet touched the wharf.

"Is he going to his carriage?” Claire asked.

"Yes,” Rand told her.

She nodded. “I didn't think he could bear to just stand there and wave me off. Still, I'd like to stay here until we're away."

"Of course, as long as you like.” Rand watched Claire raise her face. Her smile held the kind of serenity he did not associate with her. He wondered whether Claire could sustain that rare calm if she knew what he was thinking.